


Innocent

by a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Rape Culture, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words/pseuds/a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NEW! Extra chapter for those who asked.<br/>A species which abhors sex temporarily restores the "innocence" of the crew members by making them appear to regress to the age they were before they started having sex.  </p><p>Which is all very funny until there's an eight year old on board.</p><p>TRIGGER WARNING: Deals with sexual abuse and incest, and a character who has largely recovered from the trauma unaided but is triggered by this event. Nothing explicitly described.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eight/Thirty-One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt: (will ruin the plot a little for you...)  
> http://strek-id-kink.livejournal.com/2836.html?thread=1613844

Species 1.488932.31 was perhaps the strangest species the Empire had made contact with to date, not least because an exorbitant number of nouns in their language were simple numerical designations, up to and including their own species name.

They had developed a strange combination of technologies, but were not yet warp capable. For all intents and purposes, the Prime Directive should apply. But it doesn’t, because instead of going and using their rickety little spacecrafts to explore their creatively named neighbours, planets 1, 2, 4 and 5 or moons 1 through 37, they’d aimed up and out of their own star system (19.1.1). And instead of sending probes, they sent three staffed shuttles out travelling at roughly half impulse speeds to stars they thought likely to support life.

That they had done 60 Earth years ago. And just five years ago, one of those probes had finally entered a system currently playing host to four billion warp capable members of the Federation. They had broken the prime directive for themselves by having a ship staffed by just 8 crew, all of whom had been lying in what seemed to be a dormant state for the better part of five and a half decades, directly view another civilisation. Their preliminary reports on the discovery of the Federation – “23.18.1” – had been picked up by their receivers about 2 months ago.

So, Prime Directive shown the door, the Federation was sending the Enterprise on a welcome-to-interstellar-space diplomatic mission.

Not wanting to be too daunting, but wanting to show off their superlative capabilities in terms of transport, the Enterprise would stay in orbit around the outermost planet and a shuttle would land them comfortably on the surface of Planet 3.

Any hope of finding the Species, as the 1.488932.31 were now collectively known to Federation members, to be as logical as their reliance on mathematics or the mannerisms of their astronauts might indicate was dispelled as they approached Planet 3. It would seem that, like scientists on twentieth century Earth, they did not represent the general customs or beliefs of the majority of the population, which they were reliably informed worshiped either 3.7.1/2/4 or 3.11.2/5. Also known as Species Religions 7 and 11.

 

The shuttle made an ominous rattling noise, which Sulu told them was just normal given the uneven nature of the distribution of the strange, gaseous ring between planets 4 and 5. This signaled the retirement of the landing party’s doctor to the lavatory, and woe betide anyone who needed to use it in the three hours it would take them to reach Planet 3 as the manual bolt slid shut.

What those brave astronauts from this remote little star system might have told them was that the planet’s 2nd hemisphere primarily worshipped a sect of Religion 11 – 11.5 – which had a particular emphasis on innocence.

The picture of the Ambassador on the view-screen had an oddly cephalopod-like quality, a radial body split into ten slice-like segments, splitting at the midpoint into ten separate, smooth tentacles for walking, gripping and operating rudimentary space vehicles. They were not for waving, as confirmed by the lack of response at Jim’s attempt to greet it. It did not appear to have any eyes or ears, but it did have photosensitive cells and small sacs of air in each segment which picked up vibrations.

Jim would know this if he had read the reports.  
Spock knew that he had not.  
Jim knew that he could rely on Spock to provide him with any necessary knowledge.  
It was a vicious cycle.

“He-hey.” Jim stuttered, in shock at the creatures appearance.

The Ambassador squelched wetly before the Uhura pressed a button on the Universal Translator that made it catch up with the action. “Hello species classified  19.1.5433.1.unknown.1.” It said. “We welcome you to our system.”

“Thanks,” Kirk scraped his jaw off the floor to respond. “It’s an honour to encounter any species just reaching out into the galaxy.”

“Welcome,” the Species repeated. “I am afraid I must make a request of you before you land.”

“Name it and I’ll see what I can do.” Jim assured.

“It has come to our attention that you are of a species that practices certain behaviours we consider… Impure.” The creature looked at them squidfully. “Therefore we would like to practice a ritual to cleanse you. It will leave you quite unharmed and will wear off after 6 of our days.”

About 10 of theirs. Well. Seemed fine.

“Mr Spock, what do you think?” Jim turned to Spock, probably more to present a democracy than out of any real interest in actually holding one.

“If there are no detrimental side-effects it would seem impolitic to refuse, Captain.” He confirmed.

“Very well,” The Species burbled without waiting for Kirk’s confirmation. “We will begin.”

The ‘ritual’ was not a ritual; it was six space probes surrounding them on all sides emitting some sort of electromagnetic radiation.

“The levels are not toxic,” Spock read off the monitor. “They may however interfere with our brain processes.”

“Whoa,” Jim said after a moment. “We all look different.”

“You do not look different,” Spock waved the comment aside.

“You do,” He countered. “And Sulu, and Uhura, and Chekov, and Cupcake, and...” He gestured mutely at the woman forming their security detail. You all look younger.”

They did. It looked like Kirk was surrounded by teenagers, and maybe, now that Spock looked at it, a little younger himself.

Spock looked as he had in his early twenties; a little less filled out, but otherwise the same. Kirk looked like he had when they had first met. Maybe just a year or two shy.

Unsurprisingly, Chekov was still the youngest. He looked about fourteen.

“I do not feel younger,” Spock conceded.

“Me neizher,” Pavel laughed. His voice broke slightly on the high note and he clamped his hand over his mouth with a giggle.

“You are pure now,” The Ambassador told them. “You may approach.”

The screen went back to Space.

“Huh, weird,” Uhura mused, fiddling with the translator. “Wonder why they de-aged us all different amounts.”

“I do not believe we have really become younger, in body or in mind,” Spock looked about for a scanner to prove it, but it must have been in the bathroom with McCoy. “It seems much more likely that the probes have extracted information from each of us and are projecting it back onto ourselves and each other to induce the perception that we are in fact younger.”

“It seems pretty harmless,” Sulu shouted over his shoulder. “I still know how to pilot a shuttle, and they said it’d wear off, right?”

“Yeah. I still want Bones to check us over, though.” Jim said, crossing to the bathroom and banging a fist on the door. There was no response.

“You know,” Pavel smiled, “Zhis reminds of when I lost my wirginity. I was almost fifteen and I was on my first trip to zhe Academy. My parents wanted to go, but I tell zhem I am old enough and I will hawe to liwe on my own anyway, I do not need zhem to come wizh me, but zhey tell me I hawe to hawe someone go up whizh me for zhe first zhree days, so a girl, my friend, she comes and when we get on zhe shuttle she says, “Pawel, I want to lose my wirginity and join zhe mile high club.” And we did it in zhe back seats because ride is empty from Russia to San Francisco.”

“Thanks for the anecdote.” Kirk said ironically, perhaps to make up for the lack of the acerbic nature of the man currently locked into the toilet.

“No, ya know, I was about sixteen when I lost mine. This Andorian couple, uh,” Sulu seemed to regret launching into his own story and tried to back out. “I, um…”

“You lost your virginity in a threesome?” Kirk demanded, appalled in a way that suggested no small amount of jealousy.

“Um, yeah, when I was about this age there was this guy who worked at an old fashioned book store and his girlfriend – it doesn’t matter. I was about this age.”

“The higher creatures of this planet all reproduce asexually,” Spock proffered. “Perhaps they consider such methods unclean and have regressed us to ages before our first sexual encounters to effectively cleanse us of them.”

The other heads swivelled to Kirk. They expected Spock to be twenty-two. They did not expect the same of James Tiberius Kirk.

“I just wanted to find the right one…” He blushed hotly. “I looked older than I was…”

The knowing silence was unbearable, so he turned and pounded on the bathroom door again.

 

 

Inside the bathroom was nice. Cramped and it smelled like a chemical toilet, granted. But there was no view screen and no windows, and the turbulence felt less here.

Unfortunately, no view screen meant no knowledge of what was happening outside, or why the face staring back at him in the mirror looked about eight years old.

For a few minutes he simply sat, his small ass sinking dangerously low in the mouth of the toilet seat and forcing him to put down the lid to avoid falling in, certain that he must be tripping.

There was a bang on the door. Not knowing how to respond, and not wanting to give up the bathroom anyway, he remained seated and hoped whoever it was would piss in a bottle and go away.

A small part of him – most parts of him were now quite small – felt far too vulnerable to be seen by others, anyway.

He heard talking outside and strained to listen. A Russian boy - obviously Chekov, but the voice was _different_ -  was talking about fucking a girl on a transport shuttle. Now someone was talking about a threesome with some Andorians. And then Spock was theorising that they’d been de-aged to whenever they lost their virginity.

The words sank in, and Bones jumped up, opening the toilet just in time for it to catch his breakfast as it swiftly exited his stomach the way it came.

Without testosterone to keep his emotions in check and six feet of solid muscle to protect him, he felt tiny and weak. His little fingers shook as he gripped the toilet seat, tears landing on the plastic.

Even the noises he made were pathetic, desperate gasps that could have been whimpers.

The door banged again. He couldn’t go out there.

Consciously, as an adult and as a doctor, he knew that the shame of the situation was to be directed at his uncle. The reality of it was, that he’d never told anyone for the one specific reason – pity. They would look at him as soiled. That’s what “protecting a child’s innocence” was to Leonard – making sure they weren’t soiled, dirtied, ruined too early.

Bones didn’t want to think about it, especially not as rape. It was better not to. If there was no rapist, there was no rape, no victim, and no perpetually miserable eight, nine, ten year old. People didn’t say it out loud. Maybe didn’t even really think it, but it added up the same. Accusations not of sexuality or rape, but of _weakness_. Weakness that had let others rape him. He could never be that vulnerable again, and up until now, he’d thought he never would be.

That was the problem with "innocence". If he wasn't innocent, he must have been guilty. It turned out that it didn't really matter whether he was actually guilty or not - he felt the shame regardless. Felt pitied and soiled and robbed. It was a feeling he'd rather forget.

He meant to stay quiet and not respond, he’d ignored being nearly found out before. But his eight year old body wasn’t having it, and his sobs were noisy and messy.

“Bones?” Jim called, rapping on the door again. “You okay?”

He couldn’t respond. His voice would give him away if it hadn’t already.

“I’m coming in there. Get back from the door!”

Instead of shouting “No!” and having his shame heard but not witnessed, he fell into old habits and responded to an adult male voice like he always had at this age, with panic and no small amount of terror, scrambling back from the door as the lock was forced and it slammed open.

He curled back against the wall, but there was nowhere to hide, so he simply covered his face instead. It was useless; they could see his heaving ribcage, he could hear the intake of breath.

“Bones,” Jim said softly, reaching for him.

The second his hand touched McCoy’s arm, the reaction was profound and physical. He cringed, flinching back from the touch and slapping it away. “No!” He choked as he retched around the words. “Get away from me! Get out of the fucking bathroom, who forces the door like that? GET AWAY!!” It was odd to hear his eight-year-old voice so forceful after all these years. He’d never been able to shout like this at the time – not at predatory uncles any way. He could shout at his own parents, teachers and classmates all he liked, and frequently did. He was always the problem child.

“Bones…” Jim said again.

“Didn’t you hear me? I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT!!”

Kirk stepped back enough for Leonard – Leo, as he’d been known at eight – to slam the flimsy door shut and throw his weight against it to make up for the now useless lock.

He tried to bite back the tears, but it only made the sobs louder. All he could do was to curl up on the bathroom floor, until the cries faded to long, whimpering moans and juddering post-cry breaths.

 

 

They all stood staring at the closed bathroom door, with the exception of Sulu, because someone had to fly the shuttle.

There was nothing to say; anything at all would be a further violation of privacy, and there was nothing they could do to help McCoy as things were.

Stunned to silence, they returned to their seats and endured the rest of the flight in distracted murmurs, with only the rattling of the shuttle and occasional sobs and sniffles punctuating the tension, heightening it even further.

They landed in a daze and took up their things to leave.

“I’ll stay behind,” Uhura volunteered.

Jim shook his head. “You’re needed to research the other four dialects.” He said, voice entirely without inflection, as though he couldn’t afford to show any.

For some reason, Spock felt compelled to offer. Leonard should not be alone in the shuttle, even if that was what he wanted right now. They were in a strange place, and anyone else walking in would be liable to cause a diplomatic incident if McCoy was in the shuttle alone.

 

 

For two hours, he simply sat in his seat. He did not want to give McCoy the impression that they were alone together, although they were, because it seemed like exactly the kind of thing to trigger some sort of break down.

Then, the door creaked. He looked around, keeping his movements slow and intentions clear.

A little hand reached out and opened the door further, revealing a boy of perhaps seven or eight wearing over-sized blue scrubs and black trousers. He had obviously had to abandon his shoes, but his socks were pulled up tightly to make them fit somewhat better. His eyes were red and swollen and the pattern from the easy-grip lino of the bathroom floor was pressed into his cheek.

“Hello…” Was all Spock could offer. An illogical greeting. “Are you hungry?”

Leonard shook his head, walking up slowly and sitting in the seat next to him. He looked doubly small against the fake leather seat that the adult Leonard comfortably filled out. “I bet this planet’s real medically interestin’, they got technology that can do this.” He said.

“Indeed. Such non-invasive neuro-stimulation techniques are fascinating.” He wondered if perhaps they were about to have a scientific discussion, when Leonard’s childish features crumpled.

“They’re horrible!” His accent thickened and he grimaced at how the prepubescent voice made his words sound childish when his adult self fully intended them to be vitriolic. “I HATE space, I hate other worlds, I hate shuttles. I should never’ve come here!”

The child, Leonard, was crying again, and there was nothing Spock could do. At the best of times, his attempts to comfort only worked when they proved pathetic enough to induce laughter. Now, he couldn’t even reach out to reassure.

“At least you won’t look at me like they will.”

“I…” Spock wants to ask which look, but he doesn’t want to press for anymore information.

“Never thought I’d be grateful for that hobgoblin poker face. I guess since you feel anyway you feel just like them, but at least I don’t gotta see it. In your eyes.”

When Spock doesn’t respond again, the question is apparently obvious in the silence. “The pity,” Leonard specifies. “Look at me like a dyin’ animal they feel bad for but they don’t wanna touch.”

A pause. “You have performed admirably despite, as I am aware from your records, having not sought psychological help for these experiences. I therefor find it unlikely that you will require any "pity" from me.” An illogical human emotion, and one that he crushed all the more valiantly from then on.

McCoy wiped snot on his sleeve and cracked a watery eyelid suspiciously. “Don’ I even get a hug?” He demanded, as petulant as he was upset.

Spock looked down at him, tentatively. Spock did not "hug", although he had done so precisely three times on occasions when the Captain was in distress. He did not hug Leonard, however, or anyone else for that matter. “I thought that given the context, you might not be amenable to physical contact.”

“You thought wrong. I had my whole damn life to deal with this. And these asshole aliens aren’t gonna fuck it up. Give me a hug.” It was more of a demand than a request. Spock tried to figure out the motive behind it; for some reason he doubted McCoy wanted to be physically comforted; more likely he was attempting to convince himself he could accept the touch, like getting back on a horse before the fear of being thrown down again put one off.

Spock complied awkwardly, putting a hand around McCoy’s shoulders. The boy flinched when it settled, and he was still crying, eyes screwed shut, but he laid his head on Spock’s arm with visible effort. He was leaving dark blue damp patches of snot and tears.

In a surge of protectiveness, Spock gave him a gentle squeeze. The fact that this was Leonard, adult, long term enemy and tentative friend did not seem to influence the emotions filtering through him as they would with any actual child; perhaps they even made them stronger. He wanted to ask who it was, to make someone pay, but it was not the right time, and it was not, in honesty, what McCoy needed. Still, he could project that feeling of protectiveness and comfort through the contact, feel McCoy relax.

“It’s better like this.” Leonard said. His accent made the soft voice more recognisable. It still wavered, but he wasn’t sobbing anymore.

“Specify.” Spock wished he could sound more sympathetic without sounding more pitying, but since he could not, he felt it best not to try. McCoy did not seem to mind the abruptness of the questioning.

“With my eyes closed and my mouth shut.” _So I can’t tell how small I am._ Spock could hear him think. But he clearly still felt the vulnerability, curling up against the Vulcan like  a shield from the world. “You’ll be here when I open them?”

“I will,” Spock confirmed for him.

There was a few minutes silence, and he would perhaps have thought that Leonard had gone to sleep if he could not have felt the mind pressed against him working.

Then he said, “I’m not cryin’ because I feel so much worse now.”

“Acknowledged.”

“I don’t usually cry about it.”

“Understood.”

“It just takes a lot less to get an eight year old riled up like that. It’s physiological.”

“Of course.”

"I didn't even actually cry at the time..."

"Indeed."

“You best not be tryin’ ta sound sarcastic or I’mma hypo your ass into oblivion when I’m back to normal.” McCoy sneered at him without opening his eyes, but made no move to draw away.

“You have my word.” He stroked Leonard’s back, feeling the tiny ribs and hoping that it wasn’t reminiscent of any other touches McCoy had experienced as an eight year old. Spock himself might weep, were he not so in control of his emotions, for the way that McCoy needed to excuse his pain, insecure in his own right to cry.

Fortunately, no reply came. He really was asleep this time.

“Goodnight, Leonard.” He told the top of the child’s head, lip resting in his hair in the only kiss they’d exchange for another decade. “I will be here when you wake up.”


	2. Forty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because people kept asking for a follow up...

They hadn’t talked about it for the rest of their stay on Planet 3, in which Spock and McCoy were left largely alone. They didn’t talk about it when McCoy was barricaded back into the bathroom for the return journey. Or on the afternoon two days after they’d returned to the Enterprise, when McCoy walked back onto the bridge at the comfortable age of 31. In their debriefing, Jim forbade the rest of the away team from ever talking about it.

But nobody, least of all Spock, forgot.

 

 

The call was forwarded by Starfleet Command, for Doctor McCoy’s eyes only. He took the call. He looked fine, went back to his shift. And as soon as it was over, he drank himself into a liver-curdling oblivion.

Jim should have been the one to deal with it; the Captain left his station early from Gamma shift to go and find his best friend, but was told to fuck off. Bones just needed to be alone. Family bereavement; not his mother, not his daughter, not his ex-wife. He was fine. Go away.

So Kirk spent his evening instead with Spock. They played chess, briefly worried about McCoy and concluded there was no need to do anything unless he was still out of sorts in a few days’ time. Jim and McCoy were still close; Spock and McCoy were still… Not un-close, but their friendship came with a certain level of entirely healthy animosity. They’d check on him tomorrow, give him a few days off, or until he demanded to be put back on shift, and if he wanted to talk, he’d talk to Jim with the aid of careful probing and alcohol.

 

Spock was not one to jump, nor was he one to be surprised. So he did not drop his PADD when upon entering his own quarters via his and Jim’s shared bathroom, someone was already in there. And it didn’t shatter.

“Doctor McCoy?” He asked the figure laid out on his own desk, legs swinging over the edge, as he definitely didn’t pick up the clear back panel of his PADD and or inspect the screen for breakages. It wasn’t cracked.

“Spock,” McCoy slurred slightly, fourth drink drunk but not sixth drink catatonic. He must have sobered up from earlier, and from the looks of things, he regretted it. He was holding a bottle of bourbon on one hand and a cold pack in the other, trying to ward off a hangover come early. “Shoulda gone for the synthehol.”

“…Indeed.” Spock placed the shattered PADD on a shelf and crossed his living area. “Why are you in my quarters?”

“Perk o' the job,” McCoy snorted, devoid of all humour, but didn’t resist when Spock unclasped his fingers from the bottle and set it aside. He sat at his own desk, watching the Doctor.

“I grieve with thee…” He began, and instantly realised that it was the wrong thing to say.

McCoy laughed, again without even a hint of mirth; bitter. “I’m not.”

Spock had nothing to say to this, and so he didn't.

“She was cryin’,” McCoy chuckled, a sick, unnatural sound that was not at all like his usual laugh. McCoy looked like he might have been crying, also.

“Who was?” Spock had to ask.

“My mother. Said she wanted to scatter his ashes on our farm.” McCoy groped backwards for the bottle and Spock relented, putting it back into his hand. “Shoulda burned the bastard decades ago. Didn’t say that.”

Spock did not ask who had died, but he had a good idea of the man’s significance.

“You did not tell her.” He said instead.

McCoy laughed again, but the sound caught in his throat, and he choked as it turned to a sob before he managed to clamp his mouth shut against whatever emotion he was about to display. He stared blankly at the ceiling panels instead. “Why would I? Ruin her opinion of her brother, make her realise her son had been – had been …she doesn’t need to know that. I don’t need her to know that. Don’t need it followin’ me.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Spock took the bottle back before McCoy could drink himself under the table instead of on top of it.

“I dunno…” McCoy tried to sit up, and Spock helped him. He swayed for a moment and then slumped into a posture so poor no one else would dare assume it in his presence. “Guess there must be somethin’ though ‘cos I wouldn’ be here otherwise…”

Confident that the human was not about to fall face-first to the floor, Spock left his seat and replicated a cup of tea. Hot drinks were good for humans in shock; they might do as well for humans in misery.

McCoy accepted and took a sip. “God, this stuff is horrible!” He griped, but did not put the mug down.

“It is only Earl Grey,” Spock attempted to defend it against the vitriol. “If you dislike bergamot, I can-“

“Life’s too short.” McCoy gulped it down like a man who hadn’t drunk for days, or perhaps just one who’d drunk a litre of spirits in less than three hours. “Thanks.”

Spock sat back down, awkwardly at elbow height to the Doctor. He removed the mug from unsteady fingers and placed it out of the way on the other side of the desk. “You are welcome. Are you hungry?”

Leonard shook his head and wiped at his eyes, even though they were dry. “No, I…” He stood up as if to go and Spock copied. They both stood without Leonard making for the door, swaying gently.

“Perhaps,” He remembered from the last time this had become a significant issue, 10.4 years ago. “I could offer a therapeutic embrace?”

McCoy sniffed. “You offerin’ me a hug, Spock?”

Still unsure as to whether it was the correct thing to do, he pushed on, gently. “If you will find it beneficial.”

McCoy smiled, a small smile, but the first genuine one he’d given all evening. He blushed faintly. “Okay…” It was all the enthusiasm the parameters of their relationship would allow him to show.

Spock stepped forward half way, arms spread, and McCoy walked into them.

It was not like the other hug. They were pressed face to face, Leonard’s nose in the crook of his neck, touching from cheek to ankle.

Instead of falling asleep from exhaustion, or using the hug to convince himself he could bear the touch, whatever was happening spoke of genuine intimacy. Spock could feel the human’s deep, too-even breathing, the rise and fall of his ribs, the pulse in his chest, the body heat seeping through their clothes. Leonard felt very alive and very close. Spock could smell his shampoo and his human body smell, familiar. He wondered if his own scent was reassuring.

“I don’t,” McCoy began after more than a full minute, clearly unsure of how much he could ask. Spock would give to his friend whatever he could, but in more than eleven years, Leonard McCoy had asked for almost nothing. “I don’t wanna go back to mine. I don’t wanna think about it.”

Spock worded himself carefully. “I achieved seven hours of sleep last night, I will not require more than light meditation this evening. You may sleep here if you wish, and I will catch up on work.” Not that he had anything outstanding, but he could always read.

McCoy tensed and then relaxed again, obviously deciding what the implications of the offer were and whether to accept.

“You’ll be here when I wake up?” He asked, eventually.

“Of course.” He guided Leonard over to his perfectly made bed, only letting go of him a metre or so away so that he would not press on him nor lean over him as he slid clumsily in. “I will be here as long as you need.”

“Okay…” McCoy crawled under the covers, shifting and trying to get comfortable in the strange bed as Spock used an undamaged PADD to extract reading material from the ship’s database, sitting just in his line of sight on the desk chair. “G’night.”

“Sleep well.”

 

 

When McCoy did not sleep well, they got up and played chess until he was too tired to make a coherent move and let Spock lead him back to the bed.

“I will be here when you wake up,” He promised, leaning down to ghost his lips over the doctor's hair; but Leonard was already asleep.

 


End file.
